


sacrifice

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Sex, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 05:25:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16847980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: natasha runs an ominous cult that requires a sacrifice to the goddess said cult worships. you are the sacrifice.





	sacrifice

Your body smells like the inside of a flower shop, covered in oils, lotions, and candle wax from the prayers that lead up to the main event you’re being forced to take part in. “An honor,” the people call it. “A slut,” the people call you. It is a confusing and paradoxical part of your village’s half of the deal: your elders would present one maiden to the people of the neighboring…what is it they claim it is? Some people declared it a cult, others simply proclaimed them a tribe. Some judged them bandits, others exclaimed that they were the protectors of the land and culture you hold dear. 

All you know about them is that soon, you would be their “pet,” as they call it. Prepped and presented accordingly, they will inspect you, hopefully approve of you, then collect to be taken back to their…wherever they live. You’ve heard a lot of contradictions about the geographic location of the people who will soon own you as property. “ _Up the mountain to the left_ ,” a man at the market told you. “ _Down the mountain to the right_ ,” a woman who gave your mother a bundle of apples said. There are whispers that they are through the valley across the river, while others say they are down the river itself.

Oh gods, does it matter where you are going? Does it really matter when you have no idea what they are going to do to you?! They could be relying on you for their next meal or something else equally sinister. Would you have to perform tricks for them or break your limbs and cut your tongue out or whatever else their weird… _rituals_ …require, or be stuck in a village where your main life goal was to get married, have kids, make sure those kids have kids, and they die?

“ _Oh darling, they’re here_ ,” the woman who placed the dark veil over your head whispers to you, interrupting your catastrophic and existential chain of thought.

You swallow anxiously, murmuring under your breath. Maybe if they can’t hear you…”What do you think they’re going to do to me?”

Solemnly, the woman shakes her head. You can barely see her actions through the dark cloth, but you can surely hear the lack of knowledge and defeat in her tone. “Not a clue,” she says. “But if it makes you feel any less nervous, we are all praying for your safety.”

It doesn’t, but you thank her anyway.

The exchange (as you have dubbed it) is incredibly private. It takes place in a room that has been shrouded in secrecy and is secured by bodyguards from both ends of the deal,  _to make sure the purchase is delivered safe and sound_ , you tell yourself. It hurts to be considered less than human, an object. But at this point, you’re willing to sacrifice any shred of dignity you have left for safety. The thick walls are built to keep other things out, not you in. The thought seems incredibly contrived, but you allow it to happen anyway. It’s a small sense of comfort that you grant yourself in a time where you feel so unsafe anywhere, at any time (being Chosen has made you the target of plenty a harsh word, and you are worried that if you didn’t get out fast enough, things would escalate rapidly and brutally).

You’re presented to them barefoot, with only the veil to conceal your naked body. You’re feeling exposed, but you assume that’s the point, right? Something about rebirth, renewal, revival - or some other bullshit.

A tall, muscular woman with hair a color you’ve only ever seen from blood, or roses, or the robes of priests from a land you only vaguely remember visiting as a child, is the one waiting at the other end of the room. You’re supposed to walk to the middle ut, wait for the inevitable “Yes,” from the leader (who you presume is the woman), and then be carried off to your doom (at least, that’s what you’ve been told will happen; there is no telling whether the murmurs and gossip will show any semblance of the truth, or if anything that happens  _after_ is as bad as you predict).

Just as you step forward, the woman barks an order in a language you don’t recognize. You freeze, absolutely stunned by the loudness of her voice. You’re so caught off guard that you almost don’t notice the guards from your own territory leaving the room in an incredibly orderly fashion. When they’re all gone, it hits you like a bullet to the temple:  _you’re alone with them. Great._  You feel like a lamb that has either just been caught, only to be dressed up for an adorable fair display or to be slaughtered for dinner…or maybe you’re both. Maybe you’re both a plaything and a tasty treat, like a cat and mouse. You’re there to be their entertainment and their snack, to prance around like a pony and a cow, to-

“She’s perfect,” the woman says from behind you, causing you to shudder. You didn’t know that she had moved,  _when did she get behind you_? “Aw,” she coos, noticing the goosebumps that now adorn your skin. “Did I scare you?”

You choose to gulp and say nothing, just grab the hand of the woman who follows her around as if she’s her servant ( _wasn’t that supposed to be your job after you were accepted?_ ) and follow them to a large ivory carriage where you are seated across from the redhead. The servant sits up front with the chauver. You’re practically silent, not wanting to speak unless spoken to. Even when it does happen, though, you hesitate.

“Get comfortable, it’s a long journey to the palace,” she tells you. She’s just looking at the scenery, watching the thinned woods turn into the deep forest that you loved to explore when you were little and you didn’t fear anything - let alone a bunch of trees.

You have to clear your throat before you can muster up the courage to say anything. “How long, exactly?”

She shrugs. “A couple of hours. It’s always easier coming back, though, so it won’t be too bad…” she trails off, looking you up and down. “My gods, you must be freezing in just that…do you want something else to wear?”

_Yes_ , you want to scream. Your teeth are chattering with the coolness of the early morning breeze and the lack of functional clothing. All you can really do is nod. Slowly, she pulls a thick trunk out from under her seat. The motions are calculated as to move her body as little as possible, like she’s trying to reach for a treat to feed a stray cat without scaring it away.  _She’s trying to be kind_ , you tell yourself. Calm down. She’s just trying to be kind. Out of the trunk, she pulls a large fur coat made of something that looks like a snow leopard. It’s incredibly warm but not unbearably so; it’s almost  _breathable_.

Your voice is small as you say thank you, and it makes her sigh. “You don’t need to be scared of me, or the rest of the people you’ll meet, you know that right?”

You just shrug, not knowing what to say. “I’ve just heard-”

She sighs. “That’s understandable, but I wish that you will put all that behind you now. People will spread rumors about anything and everything…” she pauses to purse her lips. “Especially about things they do not even  _try_ to understand.”

You nod, not saying anything else. You truly have no idea what to say, anyway. Silence just seems like the best option in this case. It’s comforting, so much so, that you almost don’t realize she’s speaking to you a few hours later.

“I’m sorry…I don’t think I ever…” You look up at the woman across from you, who suddenly seems almost as nervous as you are.  “What  _did_ they tell you about us?”

You shrug, tugging at a few black furs that swim in the sea of white. “I mean, they, uh…” You struggle to form the words necessary to explain the gossip your townspeople have been whispering about since before the beginning of time. “Not much, really.”

The woman snorts. “That’s a lie and we both know it.”

You look up for a moment and see she isn’t looking at you, either. She’s looking outside again to everything that isn’t you. “They, uh, I can tell you that they didn’t tell me your name…”

“Natasha,” she says, still not looking at you. “Natasha Romanoff.”

You’re almost shocked.  _She’s Russian. That’s weird…Russia is so far from here…_ You don’t say anything, though. You mumble your own name - which she repeats just as quietly. It seems like she’s trying to get the feel for the way the syllables taste on her lips. The action is somehow incredibly cold, like she only knows you now as your name. That  _word_ that’s been assigned to you - been a marker of your personhood your entire life - has now been severed from you like a head off of the body via guillotine. It sends shivers down your spine despite the warm coat, the thought of her slicing you apart with such a clean and passionless act seems like one of the worst ways die.

“If you wish to sleep,” she says a few minutes later, “That’s okay. It’s going to be awhile until we arrive at my home.”

You nod, curling the furs closer around you like a child trying to stave off the cold of a chilly night. The innocence of the action catches Natasha’s eye. She watches you as you slowly drift off to sleep for the first time in days just as you pass a large mountain, one of the many rumored to be where the cult resided.

When you wake up, you’re in a large room you don’t recognize and in a bed that’s almost too comfortable. The thick, white comforter is warm and heavy but the room is drafty and cold. It’s large and made of stone, just like how castles were depicted in the picture books from your childhood. Your body is sore from the fetal position you’d curled yourself into for what’s probably no less than eight hours, so you decide to move around a little bit and thoroughly look through your room.

It’s another few hours before you see another person, and it’s Natasha again.

“Are you decent?” she asks, opening the door enough to signal her arrival and to make sure you can hear her. You’re dressed in just a long, black sweater, some smooth underwear, and some thick socks you found in one of the drawers. Judging by what else you found, that’s as decent as you’re gonna get.

“Yes, Natasha” you call to the door. She steps in after a moment, dressed in similar informal attire. She’s in what looks like riding pants with a similar thick sweater - only hers is a burgundy two shades darker than her hair, which is tied on top of her head. The same thick socks are on her own feet.

Natasha takes a moment to look around the room, assessing your handiwork in relation to the layout of the room. It’s not bad, at least you don’t think so. You’ve just rearranged the deep oak furniture a bit to your own liking, shifting them two feet to the left here and three feet to the right there. You’d only be staying in the bedroom until you felt comfortable staying with Natasha, at least that’s what the servant from the exchange told you the day you came here. Due to your recent arrival, trust had not been established much on either end of the deal. Accordingly, you were just operating under the assumption that you were working on borrowed time at this point. Any second that they don’t rip you apart is a second you’re thankful for. “If you’re hungry, dinner’s downstairs…” she tells you.

In truth, you hadn’t eaten for a long time. Ever since you had been chosen, the elders in your village had commanded that a feast be made in your honor. It was meant to last until you left, but you didn’t eat a single bite. You were too anxious, apprehensive of what was to come to keep anything down, and now that the stress wasn’t keeping you upright, you realize you are starving. “Yeah, I’ll…uh. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Natasha nods once, before leaving and closing the door behind her.

Once you find your way down to dining room, you encounter what you can only assume is a party in full swing. Inside the large, open space are the rest of the clan, cult, whatever they call themselves. They’re situated in a circle of sorts, able to look at each other while having enough space to make it seem like they don’t want to be too close to the person next to them. For an incredibly feared group of people, they all seem very relaxed. A blonde woman who you guess is Sharon (Natasha explained to you all of their names and personalities in a letter she had left in a drawer on your nightstand) sits upright, a clear wine glass is filled with some bright blue liquid which you bet is strong enough to knock you out in seconds. A man - James, you think Natasha has said his name was - with long hair and thick scruff leans back in an identical chair, legs stretched out as he eats a thick piece of meat. The plate sits on a side table that looks much newer than the rest of the furniture, its wood engravings gorgeous and detailed. Wanda sits cross-legged, quiet as the others talk amongst themselves. The food smells wonderful and homemade, but you don’t dare ask for any.

Finally, you see Natasha. Her posture mirrors James’, only she speaks louder and with her hands. You take the seat right next to her, listening to the conversation they’re having. It’s about you, which makes you skittish.  _How long have they been talking about you? What have they said? What do they think of you?_ Your stomach begins to turn as the thoughts race inside your brain, only tuning back in when Nat tenses beside you.

“It’s fascinating, how humans can understand so little, but think they know so much…” Sharon muses, taking another drink out of her glass. You can feel her staring at you, but you choose to look at the half-eaten plate of food Natasha’s supposedly eating (though you haven’t seen her take a single bite).

“W-what do you mean?” The words leave your mouth before your brain can fully understand the consequences.  _Fuck_.

Sharon shrugs, sitting forward so that her elbows rest on her knees. “Like, do you understand the passing over ceremony?”

“…No” you chew at your lip, trying to find the language to voice your concerns. “I never…the whole…I don’t know,” you sigh.  “I don’t, I don’t know.”

“The point is that you’re supposed to feel stripped of all of the bad things you’re leaving in your old place of residence. Here, you’re ours now,” James explains. He seems bored with the conversation but unable to leave. For some reason, he stays in his chair.

“For better or for worse,” Natasha mumbles so that you’re the only one able to hear it. It sends shivers down your spine at the thought that this could get  _worse_ , but maybe that’s just because you seem to have it so good here. You’re going to be fed every day, you have a lot of autonomy to move throughout the large quarters and to the vast field the house sits in the middle of. It’s nice, actually. Surprisingly so.

The conversation goes on for awhile before Wanda, in all of her beautiful bluntness, backs you into a metaphorical corner. “So, why do you think you’re here?” she posits, casually taking a drink as she looks at you. The others stare, too, all curious about what the people at your home - your old home, more accurately - have to say about them.

You stutter at the sudden amount of eyes on you. “I, uh…I’m not…No one, uh…”

Natasha cuts in, trying to save you the humiliation. She speaks through gritted teeth, “Wanda,  _not now._ She’s just arrived.”

Wanda stops, but the once-quiet Sharon just pushes into her place. Her words escalate much quicker than you thought possible, and it scares you. “Do you think we’re vampires who are gonna slit your throat and drink happily from your jugular?”

“I, uh-”  you stutter.

The blonde stands. “Or do you think we’re some kind of werewolf pack who are all just gonna breed you like some bitch?”

Natasha stands, too. “ _Sharon_ ,” she warns sternly.

Sharon doesn’t stop. “Or ghosts from some fucked-up past you can’t escape, who always need to collect more and more souls to stay solid, or some other shit?”

Natasha steps between you and her, blocking Sharon with her muscular body. “Step the fuck off, Carter,” she threatens. Sharon doesn’t move for a moment, which causes Natasha to release something similar to a hiss. “ _Walk. Away._ ” Before Sharon can either go back to her seat or lunge at you, Natasha grabs you by the arm and rushes you up the stairs to your room before locking the door. “I’m so sorry about that. Sharon…” She sighs. “She isn’t really a fan of the sacrifice…”

_To be fair, I’m not either,_  you think, but don’t dare say aloud for fear of backlash. Natasha looks down at you, noticing how your heart beats much quicker than normal.

“Are you okay?” Natsasha asks, genuine concern showing on her face. Sharon (and all the people in the house) are much more powerful than you and could probably rip out your throat in a heartbeat. You know that, she knows that. But that’s only part of the reason your heart is about to jump out from behind your ribcage.

“Y-yeah,” you say. You can’t tell if you’re trying to assure her or yourself. “I’m, I’m fine.”

Natasha lets out a small laugh. “Oh, you’re nervous about the ritual, aren’t you?”

_No_ , you think. “Yes,” you say.

“The sacrifice is to our goddess,” Natasha explains coolly.

You gulp, watching the knife in Natasha’s hand like a caged rabbit watches the hunter who set the trap for them in the first place. You recognize it from her plate but didn’t realize that she had grabbed it.“A-nd what does the, what does the ‘ _sacrifice_ ’ entail?” Your mind races with the possibilities.  _Gutting you? Skinning you? Will they slit your throat?_

Natasha sets the knife down on your nightstand before speaking, stepping ever so close to you as she does. “It involves an act of extreme pleasure that the leader,” she gestures to herself. “Must solicit.”

She’s touching you now, one hand on your bare hip and the other on the side of your face - rubbing her thumb over your bottom lip. “A-and what does  _that_ mean?”

Natasha smiles, leaning right next to your ear to whisper into it. “It means I have to fuck you like nobody’s ever been fucked before.” Immediately, you can’t help but moan. You’ve never had sex. Ever. That doesn’t mean you have  _no_ idea what having sex is like, you do! It’s just…if Natasha is anything in bed like she is outside of it, you’re in for one hell of a night.

“What does,” you try to avoid eye contact. “Why does, what does…having…” you struggle to find the words, and you hear Natasha snort at how obviously uncomfortable you are. “Sex with me, have to do with…have to do with a sacrifice to your…goddess?”

Natasha stays close to you as she talks, slowly leaning you down onto the bed. “Have you ever witnessed a water baptism?” You shake your head. Christians were never part of the demographic of your village. They had visited you once as a child and were almost immediately chased out. You were a polytheistic group that heavily valued your imperfect deities. The idea of some perfect godly figure who can do no wrong and would effectively eliminate thousands of years of culture and traditions didn’t interest any of your people all that much. “The water baptism is meant to be a cleanse of the soul. We make the sacrifice to our goddess so that she’ll cleanse ours.”

“Why do you-” you try to ask.

Natasha cuts you off, straddling you as she speaks. “We need you because  _she wants you_.”

You swallow nervously. “What do you-”

“She tells us what she wants, we inform your village, your village brings us…” Natasha trails off as she runs her fingers under your sweater and over your heated skin, “ _You_.” A moment passes where you two make eye contact. Slowly, as if she - the high and mighty Natasha Romanoff - is asking for permission, leans down to meet your lips with hers. You don’t hesitate in leaning forward, deepening the kiss. “Are you ready, my love?”

“For what?” you manage to gasp, almost too caught up in the feeling of her body on yours to understand anything she says.

Natasha just smiles, kissing down each of your ribs. “The sacrifice?”

“Yes,” you gasp, remembering what the sacrifice entails. “Yesyesyes.”

Natasha moans where she’s positioned on your chest between your breasts, kissing at the sensitive skin there. “Then let’s get started.”

                                                             ◆

There have been times when you worry if you’re truly loved, worshipped. Or like you don’t mean anything to the people around you.

This isn’t one of those times, though. You understand how much  _Natasha_ values you as she rails you from behind with a long, girthy strapon as she alternates between whispering sweet prayers into your ears and kissing down your neck. Your hair - hot and sticky from the sweat - clings to the top of your forehead and around your ears. She’s fucking you so hard you don’t know if you can take anymore - and you desperately claw at the sheets in her bed positioned in the middle of the room, Natasha’s equally hot skin, the pillow,  _anything_ to ground you from the sweet euphoria coursing through your veins.

“Oh, my love,” Natasha purrs into your ears. The added heat from her breath goes straight to your pussy and causes you to cry out. “Do you wish to be finished with this?”

You shake your head furiously. “N-no,  _please_ don’t,  _please don’t stop_  I beg of you.”

Natasha kisses the back of your neck again, shoving you down against the bed as she laughs lowly. As she speaks, her hips punctuates her words with thrusts that make you scream. “Good, my love. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the sacrifice,” as she watches the strapon disappear into your dripping cunt, she moans herself. “You look so pretty with your ass in the air like this, but I think we need to try a different position for a little bit”

You’re at a loss for words, unable to think - let alone form - the pesky verbal part of the English language. Natasha grabs at your hips and shoulders so that your back is pressing against her chest and the pleather harness of her strapon. One arm reaches across your own chest to keep you from falling over again, while the other reaches down to toy with your swollen, abused clit. A pained “oh god, oh  _fuck_ ,” somehow escapes your throat.

“You gonna cum, baby?” Natasha whispers. “You gonna cum for me?”

All you can do is whimper, nodding furiously. You can’t speak, and Natasha  _knows_ that. She likes to see you try, though, wants you to tell her how  _close_ you are oh  _god_  you’re  _so fucking close._ It’s in that moment when you’re right on the brink that Natasha just…stops. You let out a choked sob, desperately trying to slam your hips back onto the toy. Instead of fucking up into you, Natasha just flips you over so that you’re facing her. She looks as blissed out as you are, eyes glazed over and face red from the physical exertion. “You’re the most beautiful little thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” she mumbles, slipping out of you to kiss down your body. You moan at the empty feeling and the sensation of her nipping at the softest parts of your chest and stomach. Through the thick scent of sex you can smell the large blood candles made especially for the ritual, strong enough to almost snap you out of your haze.

“ _Please_ ,” you beg. “Please…”

Natasha just looks down at you, smiling. “What, baby? What do you want?”

“I,” you can’t seem to get the words out. All your neurons can seem to create are high pitched whines and small, choked sobs. “I want you to…”

“Oh, baby,” Natasha tsks. “I know you know how to use your words.”

You try to swallow but your mouth is dry from the constant moaning, your eyes screwed shut to keep the tears from falling. “I want, I want you to,” you struggle more than usual to think of what you want, let alone say it aloud. “ _Please_ fuck me Natasha I want you to fuck me with your thick cock and make me cry and I want everyone else here to hear us and hear how well you’re fucking me. I want to feel you for days afterward and feel empty when you’re not inside me. I want you to make me feel so good I’ll never be able to have anyone else fuck me again. Natasha,  _please_.”

“Mmm,” Natasha moans, satisfied with your pleas. “You ready?” All you can do is nod, smashing your bottom lip between your teeth so hard you taste iron. Just as Natasha slips the tip into your aching pussy, a moan escapes your throat so loud and deep you almost don’t recognize it if not for the deep rumbling in your chest. “There you go,” she purrs, slowing thrusting in and out of you at an agonizing pace. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t fucking  _walk_ ,” she hisses, then grabs your legs and bends them to your chest to get a better angle, and the stretch makes you scream out in pleasure.

She pounds into you so fast you can’t think, you can barely even moan. The next few orgasms come hard and fast, much too quickly for your delirious mind to keep up. Occasionally, one of her praises will break through the deafening sound of skin slapping and your slick around the toy, which makes you even wetter. “That’s my girl,” she’ll say. “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.” They’re surprisingly tender for someone who’s fucking you so hard you probably won’t be able to sit, walk, or do anything for the next few days. You don’t mind, though. It’s sweet.

By the end of the night, you’ve come, what - six, seven times? Your legs feel like jelly and you can barely hold yourself up as you straddle Natasha. The strapon has since been taken off and placed off to the side for cleaning, something Natasha knows she should do soon. But right now she’s focused on you - making sure you’re okay, making sure you drink the water she had poured in a glass before you even started, checking in on you. One hand stays on the back of your neck to play with the short hairs there while the other rubs lotion onto your bruised ass. You wince when it stings, and Natasha’s always there to comfort you. “You good, baby girl?” she asks as she leaves light kisses on your chest.

You nod, tucking yourself into her side.

“Good,” she says. A moment passes before she speaks again. “I’m sure the goddess will be pleased.”

You smile as fatigue overcomes your body. “I’m glad.”


End file.
